


You, me, somewhere else.

by clexatrash_af



Series: You, me. [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clexatrash_af/pseuds/clexatrash_af
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "You, me, Paris." </p><p>Years later. Some things change. Others don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You, me, somewhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so a few things:  
> 1\. The amazing and talented ~~asshole~~ Mia ([forbiddenquill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/forbiddenquill/)) and I mayyyy or may not have something in the works. The story idea is one of my proudest by far (just thinking about it makes me akjsdnjabf), so hopefully under the masterful hands of Mia it'll blow all your minds. Seriously. I am bursting w/ excitement over this potential story. If you liked my 100 words story, you're gonna LOVE this one.
> 
> 2\. My crack fic is now at 169 kudos so STOP GIVING IT KUDOS. One hundred and SIXTY-NINE, amirite?? GUISE? SIXTY NINE??
> 
> 3\. Is anyone else kinda miffed the only travel AUs are American roadtrips??! Where are the EUrail AUs? Backpacking through Asia?? Raise ur hand if you want these.
> 
> 4\. K8, if you're reading this, pls be chill. Like go get a bucket of ice and pour it over urself. THAT CHILL.

There are only two other first class passengers on the flight. Your seat is spacious and the people are quiet, just the way you usually like it. Today, here, it just feels uncharacteristically empty.

You’re no idiot. You know that this hollow feeling is because of Clarke. _You miss her._ It’s probably just this damn city, romanticizing everything. It’d never have ended well with her anyway. She lives in New York, your schedule doesn’t allow for distractions or _anything_ really. She’s a romantic, you’re a _realist_ (not a _cynic_ , because that would imply a non-believer, which you surely are not).

There are a million and one reasons why you made the choice you did, the _correct_ choice, so you shake it off and order a drink as soon as you sit down.

When the sun rises over the North Atlantic, you watch until it goes out of sight. You let yourself briefly wonder if she’s seeing the same sky you are.

(Highly doubtful).

\--

_“You didn’t think I left, did you?” The voice breaks Clarke out of her reverie. Behind her, Lexa is wearing a smirk and leaning against the doorway, bottle of what looks to be champagne in hand._

_And really, Clarke almost lets out a laugh. More than anything, it’s relief that washes over her._

_“I mean, I did buy out this entire restaurant for the night, and this isn’t something I can expense, so…” She trails off with a casual shrug of her shoulders._

_“Oh really?” Clarke quirks a suggestive brow as she begins to walk – no, saunters – towards Lexa, and just for a second, she thinks she can see the cool façade drop. Just for a second though. “Well then I guess we better not waste your money.” She takes the bottle of champagne, sets it down on the floor and threads their fingers together, leading Lexa back to the window before leaning up on her toes and kissing her._

_It starts off soft, light, and chaste. Just enough to wipe that smug smirk off Lexa’s face. When she pulls back, the normally calm shade of green in Lexa’s eyes goes a shade darker, and it’s Clarke’s turn to smirk triumphantly._

_She begins her descent down Lexa’s jawline, nipping, licking, sucking. “Of all of the hundreds of thousands of possible uses for a blindfold, you had to pick **that** one?”_

_The words vibrate against Lexa’s throat, and her mind goes really, really hazy. “Um…”_

_“I thought you were supposed to be smart.” Clarke starts to work on (rather slowly, she might add) unbuttoning her shirt, kissing every inch of newly discovered skin she finds. Lexa has to fight really, really hard to remember that they’re in a restaurant in the Eiffel tower, right by the glass window where anyone would probably be able to see if they looked up (probably not, but still)._

_“And honestly, when I dragged you back to my room this afternoon, it certainly wasn’t to watch Amelie, no offense to the movie.”_

_“You were…” she has to stifle a moan when Clarke does something with her mouth that she can’t quite describe. “…D-drunk…” Jesus Christ._

_The blonde halts, and for a second, the world comes rushing back to her senses. Just for a second though, because Clarke’s lips are back on hers before she can take a proper breath._

_“That is incredibly sweet,” Clarke breathes out between kisses. “Put this on.”_

_It’s the **blindfold**. _

_Lexa’s hesitant at first, but then Clarke just snatches the material out of her hands and does it herself._

_Lexa doesn’t have time to protest, doesn’t even have time to react because Clarke immediately makes her way down Lexa’s front and holy fuck she briefly wonders why she’s never done this blindfolded before._

_But then Clarke goes to her knees and tugs her pants down and- Mother-of-God._

_She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. She **really** doesn’t care._

_\--_

_“So that’s what they teach you over at NYU?” She asks, much later, tracing light circles on Clarke’s back._

_The blonde laughs throatily. “My tuition dollars certainly didn’t go to waste.” And then, much quieter. “What time’s your flight again?”_

_“It took off ten minutes ago, and if you recall, I was rather occupied then.”_

_It’s dark, but Lexa thinks she can make out a blush on Clarke’s cheeks. “So you’ll take the next flight out?”_

_She shakes her head. “I think I’m going to take a few days off from work. I’m only just starting to like Paris, so…”_

_Clarke looks at her then, and her eyes are so full of adoration and hope that Lexa almost has to turn away. She takes a breath before continuing. “Maybe after that, I’ll move to the New York office. LA gets boring after a while. Plus there’s that whole drought thing going on.”_

_The girl’s lips slowly curve into a smirk. “Wouldn’t want to be thirsty now, would we?”_

_“No.” She nods thoughtfully, not even bothering to hide her grin. “You’re right. Proper hydration is extremely important.”_

_“Extremely important.” Clarke echoes her formal tone, hand snaking around Lexa’s neck to pull her in for a kiss. And another. And another. And countless more after that._

_\--_

_It’s their last day in Paris when she fucking realizes that they still don’t know each other’s last names._

_They’re just lazing on the bed with their hands entwined when the question comes up._

_“Griffin.” Is her answer._

_Clarke Griffin. Lexa tries out the words on her tongue, in her mind, silently._

_“I’m-“_

_“How about” - she cuts Lexa off, and while they’ve known each other less than a week, the brunette knows full well what that smirk means – “I spell out some letters, and you tell me which ones make up your last name?”_

_For a split second, she wonders if she’s wrong and Clarke’s going to write out letters in her sketchbook or something, but then she buries her head under the blankets and kisses down Lexa’s sides and **oh**._

_That is definitely not her pencil and she’s definitely not spelling it out onto a sketchbook._

_\--_

_It takes two weeks for the paperwork to finish the paperwork for the transfer. An astronomically fast time in the world of corporate bureaucracy, possibly because Lexa agrees to a small pay cut, but she finds herself simply not caring as her plane touches down at JFK airport._

_Clarke kisses her with an almost reckless abandon at the arrivals terminal, arms securely wrapped around her neck._

_“You’re really here,” Clarke breathes out like she can’t quite believe it._

_“I am.”_

_Later, back at Lexa’s hotel room, they have sex, or fuck, or make love, or whatever you want to call it. For Lexa, it is the closest thing to a religious experience she’s ever had in her life; Clarke’s name the only prayer on her tongue._

_“Thank you,” Clarke says quietly into the nook of her neck, after._

_Lexa can’t help the chuckle that comes out. “You’re very welcome.”_

_“I meant for not leaving me stranded in Paris. I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Clarke tightens her grip around Lexa’s waist, almost like she’s afraid Lexa will disappear or disintegrate beneath her fingertips. She remembers back to their first conversation. How some asshole boyfriend broke Clarke’s heart. Lexa can’t imagine anyone leaving a girl like this behind. It’s incomprehensible._

_“I’m very glad I didn’t,” Lexa answers honestly after a brief moment. She doesn’t tell Clarke that she very, very nearly did just that. It’s not like it matters now anyway._

_They’re silent for a short while, before Clarke laughs at something, looking up at her. “You didn’t book the flight, did you?”_

_“Which one?”_

_“To Paris. You were in economy instead of business.”_

_“Oh, yeah. My assistant did. Jasper.”_

_“You should thank him.”_

_Lexa snorts. “Right after I fire him.”_

_Clarke gives her a pointed look. “We never would’ve met without him.”_

_“You say that like it’s a good thing“- A light jab to her ribs - “Ow! Fine, he’s working under someone else back in LA anyway. I’ll make sure to put in a good word with his boss. Happy?”_

_\--_

Back home, immediately after firing Jasper and making sure he never finds another assistant job in the state, you dive into your work. Getting in sooner and sooner, leaving later and later, doing more and more.

You make sure to keep reminding yourself that it’ll all be worth it at the top.

Before long, there’s talk of Anya resigning, to go travel or whatever it is that wealthy executives do after leaving, and you taking over the reins.

Eventually, it happens. On the same day Anya hired you years ago, she promotes you to CEO. The youngest ever to hold the position in the company’s history, in fact.

Toasts were made and congratulations were passed along, which you accepted graciously. You know that these people would stab you in the back the first chance they get if it meant furthering their own careers. But hey, keep your enemies close and all that.

Nevertheless, you’re happy. Ecstatic. Over the moon. It’s everything you’ve wanted and worked so hard for since you were sixteen.

The world starts to spin infinitely faster, but in a good way. Your time and attention becomes highly sought after. You end up on the cover of magazines, people worldwide start hanging onto your every word, and publishers from around the country all beg at your feet for a book deal. Your name becomes synonymous with titles like “genius”, “pioneer”, “an absolute inspiration for the next generation”. Your phonebook starts filling up with _people_.

You end up on several lists, alongside royalty, prominent politicians, and some of the most influential figures on the planet. You have to admit, there have been a few that inflate your ego almost to an unhealthy size, not that you’re complaining about being one of the ten sexiest CEOs, of course.

Your net worth also grows exponentially. Sure, you’re not quite at the level of Bill Gates yet, but at this point, it practically doesn’t even matter. You have a penthouse in the city and several other properties around the world, mostly just for show, the majority of your days are spent traveling for work anyway. There’s always a jet or a million dollar car or luxury yacht waiting to take you anywhere on the planet. Queues no longer exist in your world. Everywhere you go, the first class treatment follows, and it’s something you never thought you’d ever get used to, but that’s not going to stop you from trying.

You have everything. You have everything. You have everything.

\--

_They stay in different apartments, because Clarke still has a year left on her lease and Lexa needs time to get settled into the city and new job. That doesn’t stop either of them from spending nearly every day at each other’s places._

_Now, Lexa’s never been one for physical contact, let alone cuddling. Rationally, she knows it’s just the release of oxytocin in her brain, but she can’t bring herself to care when Clarke is soft and warm and **present**. She likes having an arm wrapped tightly around Clarke’s waist, breathing her in. _

_Clarke smells like a lot of things. Lavender and jasmine and rainbows and sunshine and everything good with the world. Most importantly, she smells like home, Lexa finally realizes._

_No, Clarke **is** home._

_The fact dawns on Lexa, 7:13 am on a lazy Sunday morning, her nose nuzzled safely into the back of Clarke’s neck._

_“I love you.” The words tumble out from her lips of their own accord, and Lexa couldn’t stop them even if she wanted to._

_Silence. Clarke’s breathing doesn’t even stutter, and just when Lexa thinks she’s still sleeping: “More than your expense account?”_

_Really, she can almost hear the smug little smirk. “Well, I mean, maybe not that mu-“_

_An elbow to her stomach._

_“So I’ll take that as an ‘I love you, too’ then?”_

_“I hate you.”_

_\--_

And then there’s the women. Damn. They are _everywhere_ , and they throw themselves at you at an almost blinding pace. Money and power are apparently heady aphrodisiacs, both of which you now have in spades. You’re not going to fool yourself into thinking you connect with all of them, but they’re nothing if not criminally attractive, sophisticated, educated, and _fantastic_ in bed. It almost starts to _bore_ you, how easy it is.

Once or twice, you try to stay over afterwards, but it never does anything for you. The designer perfumes become more gag-inducing than anything. Most times you’d get back to the office and get some work done, sometimes you’d pull out her phone and read the news or play some dumb video game.

At a certain point, you realize you’ve become more invested in killing green little pigs with flying birds on your phone than whoever’s sleeping next to you.

But like every high, the come down is an absolute bitch to deal with. Your hours are much, much longer, and the added stress and responsibility is like an unbearable weight on your shoulders. You begin to see why all the traders on Wall Street survive on a diet of cocaine and coffee. Sleep is a precious, precious luxury which you rarely have time for anymore. You can barely eat, you pay your chef an ungodly amount of money to pretty much sit around these days. Headaches start to become your friend, because it’s either those or migraines that feel like someone is jackhammering at your skull. The ground starts to feel wobbly and unstable underneath your feet everywhere you walk.

The days stretch and stretch and stretch.

Until one day, inevitably, it snaps.

You’re in a meeting when you feel your consciousness slip away from under you. Your surroundings go blurry, and then…

\--

_There are three things Lexa learns about Clarke after living with her for a while._

  1. _Clarke never fails to surprise her. Whether that be with flowers or a spontaneous roadtrip or breakfast in bed. Each time, it never fails to make her fall more in love._
  2. _Clarke makes the world’s best pancakes. Even her chef agrees._
  3. _Clarke has two stages of being drunk. After three or more glasses of champagne, she becomes a literal 5 year old who likes to play ‘the floor is lava’, watch Disney cartoons, and wear mismatched socks. At two to three glasses of champagne, however, she’s extremely…_ affectionate _. At first, it feels like the most amazing cheatcode ever, right up until her body starts developing an almost Pavlovian response to the sound of a cork popping._



_(She’s thankfully managed to convince the whole office to celebrate good news with wine instead, after the first couple of times when she felt “sick” and had to leave early)._

_(Clarke didn’t seem to mind very much)._

\--

The next thing you know, you’re lying down in a hospital bed somewhere, Anya looking over you with a stern expression on her face. Your first thought is that you want your money back if this is heaven.

“The doc says it was stress. You’re working too hard and whatnot,” Anya tells you.

You open your mouth to say something, but you have a little trouble finding your voice. _Water._ You need water. Your throat is parched.

“Meeting.” You manage to croak out.

Anya rolls her eyes. “No, you’re not going anywhere.”

You open your mouth to protest, because you’ve only just became CEO and this is nothing more than a minor setback from which you will quickly bounce back. You need to prove to her that she made the right choice in promoting you. You need to prove to her that you’re not _weak_.

But…nothing comes out. Your mouth still feels as dry as a desert. Luckily, Anya seems to seems to see the problem, and she hands you a glass of water, which you gladly take several gulps from.

“I’m putting you on paid leave for now, and I don’t want to see your face back at the office until you’ve had at least a fortnight’s vacation.”

You almost lunge forward, only to find out there’s an IV needle stuck to your arm. Surely there’s a metaphor there somewhere. “Anya-“

“No, Lexa,” she cuts you off firmly. “I’ve seen way too many people burn out like this, and I’m not letting you become one of them.”

You fall back onto your pillow defeatedly, because she’s been your mentor for the majority of a decade now. You know she’s not going to back down, and you’re not going to win the argument.

When you get home, you stick a giant world map up on one of your empty walls (you have plenty to choose from) and figure that throwing darts at it is as good of a way to pick a place as any.

The first two times, you hit water. The third time, you hit Antarctica (tiny sleeping quarters and no hangar for the jet? _Please_ ).

You take a tequila break, and when you come back, you decide to close your eyes and spin around a few times before throwing the dart. Miraculously, it lands on land. A tiny little island above Europe.

Iceland, upon closer inspection.

Upon a quick Google search, you find out that Iceland is not an island made out of ice. It _is_ secluded, dark, and cold. Good, you’re sick of the West Coast weather. You’re sick of the paparazzi. You’re sick of LA.

Iceland it is.

\--

_“Iceland?” Lexa asks with a raised brow. It’s a Friday night, and they’re both lazing on the spacious leather couch in their apartment. Clarke has her head on Lexa’s chest, and she’s gently playing with their entwined fingers. “Why do you want to go to Iceland?”_

_“I mean, why not?”_

_“Because there’s like a million other places we could go? Besides, you love Paris.”_

_“We go there every year. It’s going to lose its charm soon.”_

_“Okay, how about somewhere warm? You, me, a couple of bikinis…”_

_Clarke looks up with a frown. “We have a pool, you saw me in a bikini yesterday.”_

_“Right,” Lexa nods pensively. “We wouldn’t want that to lose its charm…”_

_She gets a jab in the ribcage and a pointed glare for that._

_“We could watch actual stars,” Clarke says giddily after a few moments, and the excitement in her eyes could probably be seen from outer space._

_Lexa snorts. “Excuse you, there’s a star right here, and you just injured it.”_

_Clarke rolls her eyes. “Funny.”_

_“Fine, we’ll go to Iceland and look at some ice.”_

\--

You board the jet after dark, away from prying eyes of the public even though Anya had told you not to worry about something so trivial. The company’s doing better than ever, and you’ve earned a vacation after working so hard for so long. _A forced vacation_ , you wanted to say (but you didn’t).

About ten minutes into the flight, you realize that you are extraordinarily and spectacularly bored. Anya had given explicit instructions to your assistant not to forward you any files or documents whatsoever. All your work was either filed away in the office or saved onto your company laptop (which she also took).

You think about maybe fucking one of the flight attendants who’s been eyeing you since you arrived at the hangar, to pass the time if nothing else, but then you decide against it. God knows she could spike your drink with something afterwards. Instead, you pull out your phone and try to beat your previous high score on Angry Birds.

(Why the fuck the birds would sacrifice their own to try and kill pigs already trapped inside houses is beyond you, but whatever).

Before you know it, the first few ray of light filter through your seat window. You take a short look outside and instantly regret it, because there’s the unmistakable sun making its daily ascent over the horizon.

It’s been years. Feels like whole infinities ago.

 _Clarke_. The name refuses to leave your brain, but that’s probably just due to its distinctiveness.

Anyway, none of that matters anymore. You close your window until the jet lands in an airport whose name you can neither spell nor pronounce.

There’s a car waiting for you, as per usual. It’s not a Rolls Royce like you’re used to, but your (new) assistant assured you that it’s the best car available at such short notice, so you figure it’ll have to do.

The instant you start moving, you know you’ve picked the right place. The winding roads are practically empty. To your sides are either mountains or volcanoes, rock formations and black sand beaches. Even you have to admit it’s gorgeous.

The driver doesn’t narrate or try to give random tidbits of information on the sights you pass, for which you are glad. It’s incredibly peaceful here. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to make meaningless small talk. You just want to sit and enjoy the scenery. Maybe this vacation isn’t such a bad idea after all.

You arrive at the hotel, and your driver timidly informs you that you’ll have to check-in yourself, but is quick to assure you that there will be no wait time.

“It’s fine.” You can’t find the energy to be angry.

The lobby is what you’ve come to expect from a 5-star hotel, and you walk briskly to the reception desk.

You’re halfway into giving the receptionist your usual fake name, when you feel a slight tap on your shoulder. There’s an annoyed grunt in your throat that dies the minute you turn around.

“Hi.”

The years disintegrate into nothing. You almost want to reach up and rub your eyes, but you know they aren’t deceiving you.

“Hi.” You barely manage to breathe out, the word seeming foreign on your tongue.

“Fancy running into you here,” she chuckles, but it’s awkward at best. There’s this _thing_ in the air. You want the ground to swallow you whole.

“I’m-” _What? What are you?_

Clarke raises her eyebrow expectantly. “On vacation?” She offers finally.

“Yes.”

She nods once. “I’m stopping over here.” Déjà vu. “Figured I might as well build my frequent flyer miles and see some volcanoes before I get back to the hospital.”

_Hospital?_

“Where I work, don’t worry. I’m not dying or anything.”

You force out a laugh. 

“Miss Woods?”

You turn back to the receptionist, who’s holding a keycard in his hand.

“Your suite is ready.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You don’t move from your spot when you face Clarke again. You’re not sure what the proper etiquette here is. _Perhaps an apology?_

What comes out instead is: “So I’ll see you.” You sound nothing like an eloquent CEO should.

She nods. “You’ll see me.”

The conversation feels like it’s reached its end. Should you just walk off? Should you give Clarke a polite nod? A handshake?

Luckily, she decides for you both when she moves in for a hug.

It’s shaky, at first. You make the mistake of inhaling. She smells vaguely like the ocean.

Sooner or later, you sink.

Sooner or later, you drown. 

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure you can tell which part my heart lies in by the length alone. Anyway. Next chapter, if I EVER FUCKING WRITE IT, will have some more angst, don't worry. 
> 
> Tumblr handle is: a-wild-clone-clubber (I'M V V FRIENDLY AND SMALL SO U CAN FIGHT ME EASILY)


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